by Chris Curran
‘I can’t do that.’
‘Joycie, you’re being followed. We can’t get any protection, and now you’re telling me you think our dog might have been stolen to warn you off.’
‘We won’t pick them up then. If we arrive separately no one’s likely to connect us.’
Marcus dumped his plate onto the coffee table. ‘How the hell can you be sure of that?’
All she could say was, ‘I have to see them. It might be my only chance to find out about Pauline. I owe that to Mrs Shaw.’
Marcus jumped up, his toast untouched, and headed for the stairs, stopping at the bottom to turn and shake his head at her. ‘They won’t get into the Ad Lib without you if they’re not members.’ Then he pounded up to his room, his face set hard.
Joycie could hear him moving about, but she forced herself not to follow him and to eat some of her toast. She looked at the phone. She’d need to call Helen soon if she wanted to cancel. Instead she walked slowly upstairs and, without thinking, began to get changed.
Marcus came to stand at her bedroom door. He had changed too. ‘If you’re determined to go I’d better come with you.’ His face was still grim.
Joycie had a thought. ‘What about that mate of yours, Richie? He’s a member. You could ask him to pick them up.’
‘I thought you couldn’t stand him.’
‘I can’t. Helen might fancy him though.’
He shook his head at her, but as he turned away he said, ‘Better ring Richie now then.’
***
Richie was actually the Honourable Richard Prescott, and he was tall, blond, and handsome. He was well known in all the London clubs so he would have no trouble getting Helen and Sally through the doors of the Ad Lib. When Marcus told him one of the girls worked in a boutique Joycie could imagine him licking his lips at the thought of impressing a little dolly bird. Marcus had made the mistake once of telling Joycie that Richie had referred to her as your dolly bird, but it only confirmed what she thought of him anyway.
When they got out of the tiny lift that took them up to the club Richie waved at them from a table near the big window. There was a wonderful view over the city lights of central London from here: the best thing about the place, in Joycie’s opinion. Richie’s mouth was moving as they pushed their way through the dancers, but the music was so loud it was impossible to hear what he was saying. The lights glittering from outside and in were reflected by big mirrors hung around the walls, but as they got close to the table Joycie thought Helen’s huge eyes outshone them all. Richie’s arm was round her shoulder, his other hand on her dimpled knee.
Sitting opposite them, smiling, but with folded arms, was a young woman who must be Helen’s sister, Sally. Joycie sat next to her, and Marcus pulled up a stool to sit at the end of the table. Helen, laughing, flapped a hand at her sister and shouted something that might have been, ‘Sally.’
Joycie turned to smile at Sally, and Marcus mouthed, hello, to both girls and grabbed Richie’s shoulder. Richie took his hand briefly from Helen’s knee to slap Marcus on the back with a, ‘Hi mate. Great to see you.’
There were several bottles of champagne on the little table and Richie filled two empty glasses and pushed them towards Joycie and Marcus. Joycie raised her glass to him, but Richie was whispering something to Helen. Probably telling her he’d been a Guards officer, but had to give it up through injury – his usual chat-up line so Marcus told her. In fact he’d only lasted a couple of months’ training before buying himself out.
She turned to Sally, knowing she couldn’t be heard by Richie and Helen on the other side of the table. ‘Richie’s a real poser, I’m afraid. You should tell Helen to be careful.’
Sally pulled a face. ‘Fat chance of her listening to me,’ she shouted with a gruff little laugh.
Joycie guessed she must be in her late twenties. Her red hair was cut in a neat old-fashioned style and unlike her sister she was wearing hardly any make-up: just a dusting of powder and a touch of pink lipstick. In her plain black dress, a string of pearls at the neckline she was obviously out of place in the Ad Lib. But Joycie thought the look suited her and when she smiled her face was very pretty.
Joycie waved her hand at the dinner jacketed DJ and the girls waving feather boas as they wiggled on the tiny dance floor, then leaned close to Sally and shouted, ‘What do you think?’
Sally’s eyes twinkled. ‘Not what I’m used to, but perfect for Helen,’ she said.
Joycie laughed. ‘It’s not really my scene, but it can be fun.’
Sally shook her head. ‘Your friend Richie called it, “The place where everyone is either famous, or beautiful or both.” Don’t think he’s impressed with me, though.’ Her imitation of Richie’s upper class drawl was perfect and Marcus must have heard because he turned and gave a silent handclap. Richie and Helen looked over, clearly wondering what the country mouse could have said that might amuse anyone.
Sally touched her throat, pulling another funny face, and Joycie nodded and raised her glass. Even after a few minutes her own throat was feeling rough from shouting through the music and the smoke that filled the air. Richie and Helen stood up and headed for the dance floor, and Sally and Joycie sipped their champagne in silence for a while, still smiling at each other. Then Sally leaned over again and shouted, ‘Helen said you were asking about your mate, Pauline Shaw?’
‘You remember her?’
‘Yeah, poor love. I …’ She shook her head and waved her hand to her ear, her throat, and then to the noisy room with such a comical expression on her face that Joycie couldn’t help laughing again.
She stood and whispered to Marcus, ‘Sally might have something to tell me,’ and pointed back towards the lift.
As they all headed over, Marcus pulled at Joycie’s arm. ‘We don’t know who might be outside.’ But Sally was already in the lift so Joycie followed her. Marcus joined them, leaning back against the mirrored wall and shaking his head. ‘We need to tell Sally about Bill first.’
Joycie put her hand on Sally’s arm. ‘The thing is you probably shouldn’t be seen talking to me. Someone has been following me. Seems to think I’m poking my nose in where it doesn’t belong.’
Sally’s forehead creased. ‘About Pauline, you mean?’
‘I don’t know, but I don’t want to cause you any trouble. Perhaps we should talk on the phone instead.’
Sally giggled. ‘Ooh I say,’ and reached around Marcus to press the button to go down. ‘I could do with a bit of excitement.’
Marcus said, ‘This is serious,’ and as the lift doors opened he stepped out, holding the door with one arm as he looked along the wide alleyway. ‘No one around,’ he said, ‘but I’ll keep a lookout while you talk, and don’t be too long.’
As they left the lift he walked to the corner and the start of Chinatown to stare up and down Lisle Street. Then headed back past them towards Leicester Square.
Joycie looked at Sally. ‘Are you OK?’
Sally nodded and lit a cigarette, offering the packet to Joycie. Joycie shook her head. ‘Ian, my hubby, doesn’t like me smoking. Says it’s burning money, but I’m on holiday so what the hell,’ Sally said. When she laughed it was still the gruff chuckle that was impossible not to echo.
They walked along the side street away from the noise coming down from the club. It had been very hot inside and Joycie was glad of the cool breeze.
‘When Sally told me you were wondering about Pauline I asked Mandy, the girl who told me about her being in trouble in the first place, what she remembered. Pauline wouldn’t tell her much apparently, just said the father wasn’t in the picture and couldn’t help. Mandy could hardly believe it – a kid like Pauline – but then, as she says, it can happen to anyone.’
They had paused under a street light for a moment as Sally dropped her half-finished cigarette and ground it underfoot, and Joycie heard herself saying, ‘I don’t think Pauline … I mean I think someone …’ She stopped. Sally was too easy to talk to.
Sally’s eyes, as big and blue as her sister’s, glittered up at her. Her pink mouth making a little O of shock. ‘You think someone forced himself on her? Oh my God, poor little thing.’
‘Look, please don’t mention it to anyone. I hadn’t seen Pauline for a while so I’ve no real reason to think that. And you’re right, it can happen to anyone.’
Another of those hoarse chuckles as Sally jabbed at her own chest with her thumb. ‘Yeah, I should know. But Ian stuck by me and we wanted to get married anyway, just not so soon.’
They reached the corner of Leicester Square where Marcus was still waiting then headed back towards the club. It was very late; the last restaurants in the square and at the other end in Chinatown must be closing up, the only sounds coming from the odd car or taxi passing by and the music echoing down from the Ad Lib.
Sally said, ‘But, you know, Mandy says she had an idea something wasn’t right. Not just because no one had ever seen Pauline with a boy but because, when Mandy told her how much it would cost to get rid of the baby, Pauline said she’d find the money okay. And I don’t imagine she was going to ask her mum and dad.’
They paused at the entrance to the club, the music blasting out above them. ‘So what happened?’ Joycie said.
‘Mandy only saw Pauline once more. It was really early one Sunday morning. There was a fair on at Walton and Mandy had been over there to see one of the blokes working the dodgem cars. He brought her back on his motorbike. She knew all the nosy parkers would be looking out if they heard the bike so she made him stop at the end of the road. Pauline walked past them with a little case, but she crossed over pretending she hadn’t clocked Mandy.’
‘She must have been heading for the station, for London,’ Joycie said.
‘Yeah. Although it was hours before the first train.’
‘And Mandy hadn’t given her an address to go to?’
‘No and that seems to have been the last anyone saw of her.’
They looked at each other and Joycie saw herself reflected in Sally’s clear blue eyes for just a moment before her own eyes blurred with tears. Sally reached out and held her in a warm hug. ‘You never know,’ she said, ‘she might have been going to meet the father after all. Perhaps they’d decided to run off together.’
Joycie bit back the question: ‘Well why has she never come back?’ Sally was trying to comfort her. To make them both feel better because it was far too late to help Pauline.
***
That night Joycie got up twice imagining she heard Fatty whining or scratching at the front door, but the street was still and silent. The second time, she opened the back door and scanned the overgrown garden, but there was no sign of movement out there either. She made a cup of tea and stood in the kitchen drinking it and going over and over what Sally had said.
It was hours before the first train. So had Pauline really been heading for the station when Mandy saw her that morning? It would make sense because she would have wanted to be sure her parents were still asleep. But maybe she’d been sneaking away to meet someone. Even though it was difficult to believe of the Pauline she remembered, Joycie knew there had to be a chance that there was a boyfriend on the scene somewhere. As Sally said, falling for a baby was something that happened to plenty of respectable girls.
But if she was going to see a backstreet abortionist then she hadn’t got the name and address from Mandy. So where – who – had she got it from? She reminded herself that it was possible Pauline had gone to meet a boyfriend and left with him for a new, happily ever after, life. Whatever the truth there was nothing she could tell Mrs Shaw and was never likely to be.
***
Marcus woke her with a cup of tea. ‘Are you able to have a lie-in this morning? Looks as if you could do with it.’ They had hardly spoken when they got back last night, but he was smiling at her now, although it was a bit forced.
‘They’re going to ring me if and when the rest of the clothes for the shoot arrive at the studio, but I doubt that’ll be until mid-morning. So, yes, I might sleep on a bit.’
As soon as he was gone however she was out of bed, washed and dressed. She grabbed a biscuit from the kitchen and, holding it in her mouth, struggled into a jacket. It was likely to be at least a couple of hours before they rang about the clothes. Time to have another look for Fatty.
But as she opened the front door the phone rang. She grabbed it from the hall table, kicking the door closed again and reminding herself to sound bright and ready to work. ‘Hi.’
‘You lost your dog.’
Her stomach clenched and she almost dropped the phone. She recognized the voice – Bill – and he wasn’t even trying to disguise it. She couldn’t speak.
‘Lovely animal, very friendly. You should take better care of her.’
The words, when she forced them out, were a breathy squeak, her heart thumping so hard she had to press her hand to her chest to try to calm it. ‘Where is she? What have you done with her?’
‘And you shouldn’t stand in the kitchen in your nightie with the light on, you know. Anyone might be watching.’
The phone slipped in her hand and when she caught it she held it to her chest for a moment, slowing her breathing; trying to find the right words.
But when she listened again she heard only the dialling tone.
Chapter Sixteen
Joycie stood holding the phone. He must have been in the garden last night, watching, as she drank her tea. And how often had he been there before?
And Fatty, poor scared Fatty, what had they done to her?
Suddenly her mind cleared – the garden – and she found herself in the kitchen scrabbling to unlock the back door. Before she opened it she looked round, her breath choking in her throat, heart pounding, and grabbed a steak knife from the cutlery drawer.
Stepping out she looked down the garden. Damn it, why hadn’t they cleared it, got rid of all the bushes, trimmed the trees? Nothing moved. Breath held, heart no longer pounding but seeming almost to have stopped, she walked slowly towards the fence at the end, the wet grass tickling her bare ankles.
Still nothing. The morning was dank and silent. No bird song; no breeze.
Then something. Not a movement, but a dark shape under one of the trees.
A cry echoed through the silence, and she stopped; shocked by the sound, until she realized that the cry must have burst from her own throat.
The dark shape was Fatty. Lying utterly still.
Joycie managed to get her legs moving and to run, calling, ‘Fatty, Fatty girl, come here.’
Nothing.
‘Oh no, no. Please God, no.’ She fell on her knees in the cold grass, her hands in Fatty’s long soft hair.
Warm. She was warm. And, thank God, thank God, she was breathing. Joycie shook her and she gave a little moan and one leg twitched, but her eyes stayed closed. She was hurt.
But when Joycie touched her, pressing all over as hard as she dared, there was no reaction, no blood. Maybe she was drugged rather than injured.
It was no good trying to move her. So she ran to the phone in the hall, fumbling with the phone book. Where the hell was the vet’s number?
At last she found it and, her voice trembling and breaking, managed to tell the receptionist they needed the vet to call. ‘It’s an emergency. I think my dog has been drugged. I think she’s dying.’
The receptionist obviously thought she was making a fuss about nothing, but when Joycie told her Fatty had been stolen and was now unconscious she promised the vet would call. ‘But it’s surgery now so he won’t be able to get there for a couple of hours.’
She wanted so much to speak to Marcus, to tell him what had happened, but he was doing an outdoor shoot so there was no way to reach him. Afraid to leave Fatty for long she grabbed Marcus’s duffel coat and her own mac from the hatstand and ran back outside.
Fatty was lying in the same place, but seemed to have shifted and Joycie thought her breathing sounded easier. It was ch
illy under the trees so she put the duffel coat over Fatty and sat on the mac, rubbing the dog’s head and speaking softly to her, only dimly aware of what she was saying.
After a while she stopped speaking and leaned back against the tree to look up at the clouds stacked overhead: grey and heavy. A noise from the alley jolted her alert, and the knife was in her hand. But it was just someone riding past on a bike.
And when she looked back, Fatty moved and gave a whine that turned into a yawn. Then slowly opened her eyes.
***
When the vet turned up Joycie half expected him to walk right out again because after Fatty had staggered into the house, lapped up a bowl of water, and slept for another half an hour, she was bouncing around like a puppy. But the vet was all concern. He said it wasn’t unusual for pedigree dogs like Fatty to be stolen. ‘And Afghans are very fashionable at the moment.’ It seemed that the thieves frequently drugged dogs who barked or whined too much. ‘But it’s not in their interest to harm them. I’ve never known them to return a dog, though. So you’re very lucky.’
Joycie nodded and smiled, although she felt like telling him how wrong he was. If only it was as simple as that.
The vet told her to keep Fatty in the house or garden until tomorrow because she might still be shaky and best not to leave her alone for a few hours. So when he had gone she rang the magazine and told them she was ill and couldn’t make the shoot today. They weren’t pleased, but since the delay over the clothes was their fault they couldn’t object.
After she had fed Fatty she went into the garden with her. Fatty stayed close to the house, nosing among the overgrown rhododendron bushes, but Joycie made herself walk down to the end. This was where they must have got in last night: through the back gate from the lane. The gate was padlocked, but she’d never looked at it before. Had no idea if it was the same as always. The chain could easily have been cut and then replaced.
She looked back at the house. From here you could see the whole kitchen. This was where they had stood watching her as she drank her tea worrying about Fatty and staring out into the darkness.
